


Vanity Affair

by Lady_in_Red



Series: ASOIAF in the BookWorld [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), Thursday Next - Jasper Fforde
Genre: Christmas, Crossover, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Humor, Meta
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-16
Updated: 2013-12-16
Packaged: 2018-01-04 20:48:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1085541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_in_Red/pseuds/Lady_in_Red
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the BookWorld, characters don’t stop living when they’re not being read. Detective Thursday Next works in the BookWorld but lives in the RealWorld, which comes in handy when Jaime Lannister and Brienne of Tarth come to her with a problem only the fandom can solve.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>  <em>Having read Thursday Next is useful but not necessary to understand this at all.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Vanity Affair

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place after _The Woman Who Died A Lot_ in the Thursday Next series, and throughout the entire _A Song of Ice and Fire_ series. Post-season 3 show spoilers throughout. 
> 
> Miss_M graciously assured me that this was not in fact a pile of crap, but any errors are mine alone.
> 
>   
> [map of Fiction Island](http://www.jasperfforde.com/more/tn6map.html)

Over the last twenty years fighting literary crime in the BookWorld and the RealWorld, I had learned many things. Chief among them was that trouble loves to show up at the end of an especially hard day. This time, trouble came in the form of a golden knight with a dark past.

I was walking through Fantasy enroute to a disturbance in _Harry Potter_ when that man fell into step beside me.

“Ms. Next, might I have a word?”

I looked up and found arguably one of the most attractive men in the BookWorld. “Ser Jaime, it’s been awhile.” I looked him over as surreptitiously as I could manage, seeking to ascertain which version of Jaime Lannister I was talking to. Most characters in series changed little, so there was no need for more than one version of the character. A few changed drastically enough to require more than one version. Jaime Lannister had three versions already and the series wasn’t complete yet.

Neatly-trimmed beard, cropped wavy golden hair, red and gold clothing, gold hand. _A Feast for Crows/A Dance with Dragons_ Jaime, also known as Jaime 4-5. Still arrogant and rude, but not as harsh as _A Game of Thrones_ Jaime (Jaime I), nor as surly and underfed as _A Clash of Kings/A Storm of Swords_ Jaime (Jaime 2-3). Granted, I couldn’t blame that one. Living in a filthy cell, getting his hand chopped off, and enduring medieval medicine several times a day for 13 years would make anyone cranky.

The series as a whole had been operating in heavy use for nearly twenty years and the ReadRate had increased significantly since the HBO series started airing. Unsullied viewers often got halfway through the wait between series before they broke down and bought the next book. The bigger problem was that the secondary characters had a known penchant for sneaking off to Vanity Island, where Fan Fiction was sequestered across a narrow land bridge from the rest of vanity publishing. There was a great deal more sex in fanfic than in canon, which understandably attracted some of the characters—mainly the teenagers but there were exceptions. Renly Baratheon was dragged back out of Fan Fiction nearly every week. He certainly lived a lot longer and got far more action in fanfic than he ever got in canon.

“As you know, Ms. Next, Christmas is coming, and with Christmas an influx of new readers,” Jaime began.

Christmas was tough on all the popular series characters. This one in particular had a bad history with Christmas. I raised an eyebrow. “You do understand that you cannot change canon _again_ , Ser? Not after that unfortunate business in _A Storm of Swords_. Of all the days to try to sneak off for a quickie in the Royal Sept, Christmas Day 2000 was not the smartest choice.” More than a thousand readers had seen that rather disturbing indiscretion, so it had to be made canon.

Jaime huffed with annoyance and rolled his eyes. “That was Jaime 2-3, not me, and I am well aware we can’t change canon, Ms. Next.” For emphasis he held up his golden hand. Well, of course, I suppose if Jaime was tempted to change anything, it would be that. “This is about something else entirely.”

Jaime 2-3 was the wildcard of the bunch, capable of both great kindness and great cruelty. At least Jaime 4-5 was already well into his character arc and slightly less reckless. “What can I do for you, Ser?” I asked.

Jaime smiled a little sheepishly and stopped walking. I stopped beside him, waiting for the inevitable request. “The wench and I had an idea, but we would require your assistance.”

“An idea?” This should be interesting. Jaime Lannister was not exactly renowned for his brilliant ideas. His greatest hits included siring his sister’s children, throwing a boy from a tower, and threatening to put a baby in a trebuchet. I could only hope that this idea originated with Brienne.

“Yes, but it would require breaking the rules a bit,” he said reluctantly.

“This does not sound at all promising. I thought Lady Brienne had better sense than to cook up some kind of scheme, but then again she seems rather fond of you.” I checked my watch. If I didn’t leave soon, there would be hexed students all over Hogwarts.

“Ms. Next, you would do well to avoid insulting my lady again,” Jaime rebuked me.

“That reminds me, Lady Brienne has been spotted by readers several times watching your little dust-up with Ronnet Connington at Harrenhal. Please ask her to be more careful.”  This was an actual Jurisfiction issue at least. I still didn’t really know what Jaime was asking of me.

Jaime nodded. “She finds that scene rather _stimulating_. I’ll remind her to stay out of sight.” He smiled and shrugged. “It’s not our fault we’re written thinking about each other the entire book yet we never see each other.”

It occurred to me that the Harrenhal settings could probably use a good scrub down, especially the baths. With bleach. I’d set that up just as soon as I could get away from Jaime.

“Do I need to remind you that you and Lady Brienne must keep your off-page activities out of your scenes?” Perhaps it was time to consider retiring, if my job now boiled down to policing the sex lives of fictional characters.

A wicked grin spread across his face. “Oh, don’t you worry about that, Ms. Next. I’ve had a lifetime of practice keeping my activities discreet.”

I managed to conceal a shudder by adjusting my jacket. Sometimes I hated being right. Yes, it was definitely time for a good cleaning of the Harrenhal settings. As attractive as that man was, I still couldn’t understand why she put up with being called “wench” all the time. “Ser, why don’t you just tell me what you want from me? I was on my way somewhere when you stopped me.”

“We need time off from being read, Ms. Next,” Jaime started. “Especially Brienne.”

“So you want me to help you get some private time with your girlfriend?” I asked, puzzled. How would that violate the rules?

“Our world does not have _girlfriends_ ,” Jaime protested, tripping over the unfamiliar word. “We are companions.”

There was an indignant snort from behind the hedgerow alongside the path.

Jaime turned around and glared. “Wench, when will you realize it’s nigh impossible for a woman of your considerable size to hide behind things?”

A large, blonde chain-mail clad figure emerged from behind the hedgerow. Her plain face was unmarked, so she must still be early in her readings today. “Ms. Next,” she mumbled, her face aflame. “I told Jaime an ambush was not the best way to approach you.” She shot a fond but exasperated glance at her errant knight.

“Lady Brienne,” I responded. “Look, you two, I sympathize, really, I do, but I don’t understand why you need my help. And shouldn’t both of you be getting back to your books?”

Jaime shook his head. “I’ve got 26 pages left before my next chapter. The wench comes after me.” Over the years I’d gotten used to this. They just seemed to know where readers were in the text.

“Fine, but I am very busy,” I said firmly. “Tell me what you want me to do and why I should bother.  Surely you could get understudies in for a bit during down times.” I wouldn’t normally be this abrupt with such popular characters, but it had been a long day already. I was really looking forward to a quiet evening at home with my husband.

“It’s not just us,” Jaime said forcefully. “Ned does nothing but complain about getting executed multiple times a day, Tywin is getting quite touchy about that arrow to the gut, and let’s not even mention Reek or the Red Wedding.”

“I understand. Really, I do, but I don’t see what Jurisfiction can do.”

“It’s not Jurisfiction we need. It’s you. You’re from the Outland,” Brienne explained.

I was indeed the only Real member of Jurisfiction, the BookWorld’s internal police, able to move at will between the RealWorld and books. “You know contact with the Outland is strictly regulated. I’m not exempt from that,” I reminded them sternly.

The pair shared a look, communicating in a way that reminded me strongly of myself and Landen when the children were around and we couldn’t speak freely. Finally Jaime took Brienne’s hand and looked seriously at me. In an undertone, he asked, “Are you familiar with shipping?”

I laughed. No wonder Jaime seemed so embarrassed to approach me. “Yes, shippers are the main reason Fan Fiction keeps growing.” Shippers were also one of the reasons the BookWorld had to be kept secret. We had enough problems with characters acting up to change stories. Heathcliff from _Wuthering_ _Heights_ was already under constant guard to prevent assassination. We didn’t need readers getting in on the act as well.

“We have a rather devoted group of shippers. Excellent fanfic writers, as well, although I am biased,” Jaime continued.

“I’m not even going to touch that. You know you shouldn’t be reading fanfic. But what does that have to do with me?” I asked, suspicion growing.

Brienne spoke up. “They reread our chapters often. It’s very nice of them but … tiring for us.”

“If they took a day off, all of them on the same day...” Jaime cut in.

“It might give you a day off. At least a much lighter day,” I finished. It wasn’t the worst idea, and shippers were certainly connected enough to spread the word quickly.

They looked so hopeful I really didn’t want to point out the flaw in their plan, but I had to. “I’m sorry, but I can’t directly tell readers about the BookWorld. That would be a major violation.”

They both deflated.

Jaime suddenly swore under his breath. “I have to go. Readers are catching up. Ms. Next, Brienne, good day.” He turned and ran back the way we’d come.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Next. Jaime gets frustrated when he can’t fight his way out of a problem,” Brienne said quietly.

I’d spoken with Brienne before, but I had never quite gotten over the contradiction of her: this reserved, deeply vulnerable girl in a warrior’s body. “Forget Jaime. I can’t imagine what it must be like for you. First Biter and then Lady Stoneheart, every day for eight years. I served in a war, but I got to go home.” Hers were hardly the only horrific scenes in fiction, not even close to the worst really, but she’d repeated them more than 3,000 times with scarcely a break.

Brienne looked down and said shakily, “I know how we must seem, always sneaking off together.”

She was right. I had been treating she and Jaime, and these characters in general, like a bunch of drunken, oversexed university kids getting into mischief. I shuddered to think of the kind of PTSD Reek must have by now. No wonder he was so often caught trading for weed from the Outland. I’d have to check with my boss. If they didn’t already have one, perhaps it was time to set up a support group for them the way we had with _Wuthering Heights._

I set a hand on the girl’s shoulder. For all her towering height and broad, muscular body, she really was just a girl, roughly the same age as my son Friday. “Do what you need to do as long as the readers don’t see anything that goes off-canon. I’ll give this some thought. There may be a way. You can call me via footnoterphone if you or Jaime think of a solution.”

She nodded. “Thank you.”

I offered her a bright smile and patted her shoulder. Poor thing, I could hardly begrudge her a few stolen moments with a terribly handsome man.

Brienne went her way, and I went mine. There were still unauthorized hexes flying about in _Harry Potter_ and unruly students to discipline.

 

* * *

 

Three days later, with no idea about what to do about the situation in _A Song of Ice and Fire_ , I decided to confront the character who should be dealing with this. The control room for the series was, appropriately enough, the Small Council chamber in the Red Keep, so I jumped directly into the outer yard of the Keep and listened at the door to make sure no one was reading a scene inside.

After hearing nothing for a full minute, I opened the door and stepped inside. There was one character standing by the far wall, monitoring the diagnostics board hanging there. The Read-O-Meter registered an impressive 842 current readers despite it being mid-morning in the United States. More than 15 million copies of the books were in print, and of those more than 2 million were listed as “bookmarked and pending.”

The series’ page manager turned and noticed me. “Ms. Next, I’ve been expecting you.” He smiled broadly. It was still jarring to hear him speak.

“Hodor, you should have been in touch,” I chided gently.

The big man shrugged. “I’ve done my best. Who contacted you?” While the written character of Hodor could only say his own name, the character portraying him had no such difficulties. His relative lack of lines and few total scenes made him a natural choice for page manager. His job was to keep the characters happy and make sure they were present when a reader reached each scene.

“Jaime and Brienne 4-5,” I told him.

He nodded. “Of course. He’s become more of a problem the last year or so. I thought I had them under control between the support group and the extra perks I’ve given them.” Hodor frowned.

“Perks?” I asked, joining him at the diagnostics board and pointing at the corner of the room. A  television and DVD player sat on a low table. How those were powered I wasn’t sure, and they were definitely not supposed to be here. As I’d learned when I asked my boss, Hodor had at least set up a support group without needing to get Jurisfiction involved.

“Those are to watch the HBO series,” Hodor admitted. “They begged, and I thought it couldn’t hurt.”

I shrugged. “I suppose it could be worse. What else have you done?” I asked warily.

Hodor held up his hands. “Nothing too bad. No one bathes regularly in this series, so I made sure they had access to hot baths whenever they want. There’s always food in here, including whatever Outland treats I can obtain.”

“Is that all?” I crossed my arms and tried to look as stern as possible. This was hindered slightly by the fact that I had to look up nearly two feet to stare into his eyes. Standing on a chair would help, but would somewhat defeat the purpose by looking utterly ridiculous.

Hodor looked away and muttered, “Fanfic.”

“Fanfic,” I echoed, noticing the large pile of printed paper on a rack of shelves. “Hodor, you know why that’s not a good idea!”

The feedback loop could be very powerful. While it was useful for filling in details in scenes, turning a simple table into something elegant through the power of reader expectation, it could also influence the way characters played a scene. Mixing canon and fanfic could result in significant character confusion and start to alter the books themselves. The feedback loop had irrevocably changed novels in the past.

Hodor took a seat at the large table at the center of the room and poured himself a cup of wine. “I know, but some days it’s the only thing that helps. They like the escape of fanfic and the satisfaction of reading endings. I never bring them unfinished fic. Bad enough they’re beginning to despair of the series ever being finished. For a long time they only wanted to read canon continuation. Let me tell you how difficult it was finding fic that didn’t end with nearly everyone dead. Over time, alternate universe and shipper fics have become more popular, which makes things a bit easier.” He sighed. “Do you have a better idea?”

I shook my head. “No, not yet. But I’m still working on it.”

If I couldn’t figure something out, I would have to alert Bradshaw, my boss, who would have no choice but to tell Commander Herring. Red Herring was likely to simply recast the most troublesome characters and hope the author finished the series before burnout set in again.

No one knew when George Martin would finish _The Winds of Winter_ , the next book in the series. They were building it down in the Well of Lost Plots, but there wasn’t much to see yet, just what would be needed for the chapters Martin had released as teasers and anything he’d submitted to his editors. So far it didn’t seem to require many new settings, just some rehabbing and a generous coating of snow over the existing settings. Martin’s sprawling novels already took up most of the space between Sword and Sorcery and Here Be Dragons. At the rate they were being read, the whole series might need a complete overhaul before the next book was published anyway.

 

* * *

 

A week passed before I had any free time to consider the problem. I was sitting down to dinner with Landen when he asked, “You look rather pensive, Thursday. What’s troubling you? Work?”

I nodded. It was much simpler now that Landen actually knew what I did. When he thought I just cleaned carpets life was considerably more difficult. “Two characters from _A Song of Ice and Fire_ asked me for help last week.”

Landen frowned. “That’s a bit unusual, isn’t it?”

“Yes, and probably violates a host of rules, but Jaime Lannister was telling me how the heavy ReadRate has been taking a toll on some of the characters. Did you ever read that series?”

Landen shook his head. He wasn’t much for fantasy. Life with me had turned him to more decidedly non-fiction reading lately.

“There are some rather horrific events. Executions, torture, hangings, amputations, death by burning, death by molten gold poured over a man’s head,” I explained.

“Sounds like par for the course in Swords and Sorcery or anything medieval, isn’t it?” Landen was quite practical about amputations. He lost a leg in the Crimean War before we were married, so he’d been wearing various prostheses for more than 20 years.

“It is, but I think it’s the overall grimness of this enterprise that’s getting to them. The ReadRate has been climbing for years, and with the HBO series it’s getting nearly the numbers that Tolkien was getting when those Peter Jackson movies came out.”

“So we’re talking burnout here?” Landen asked.

“Essentially, yes.”

Landen thought about it for a bit. He was, after all, a published author himself. At last he laughed and grinned, spearing a forkful of green beans and eating them with relish.

I cocked an eyebrow at him. “You’ve solved it? Already?”

He nodded emphatically. “My dear, you were thinking too small. For this to work, it must be much bigger. The whole series, in fact.”

I frowned. “We can’t take the series offline.”

“Oh, you won’t have to. The readers will do it for you.”

 

* * *

 

Almost as soon as I stepped into the cool, dappled green shade, I heard splashing. Venturing forward cautiously so as not to walk into an active scene, I found Jaime fighting an invisible foe, his precise footwork taking him through a shallow stream.

I stopped making any effort to be quiet, and he suddenly turned to face me, bringing his sword up in a defensive stance.

When he saw me, Jaime relaxed, sword dropping to hang loosely in his right hand. He was dirty, with long hair and scraggly beard. Jaime 2-3. “Ms. Next,” he greeted me tersely, sketching a quick, insolent bow. “Care for a dance?”

“Croquet is my sport, ser. I’m sure you can find another partner,” I replied smoothly. This Jaime was tricky. Angry, desperate, quick with both words and steel. Likely the most dangerous of the lot, yet this was also the Jaime who saved Brienne three times.

Jaime raked his hair back from his face. Even far thinner than he should be, his throat and wrists rubbed raw by iron manacles, he was a remarkably striking man. He crouched down and scooped a handful of water from the stream, splashing it over his dirty face and across the back of his neck. When he stood again he smiled at me. “That’s better.” Jaime would always wield that sharp smile, both a lure and a weapon, even after losing his hand.  

“Do you come here often?” I asked curiously. This was, if I was not mistaken, where he fought Brienne.

He shrugged, moving toward me with almost effortless grace. “There’s a stone bridge over the river, too, but it’s not the same.” Jaime looked me up and down. I had at least 15 years on him and had been doing this job long before he was even a stray thought in his author’s head. “If you’re interested in another kind of sparring, I’m sure we could come to an agreement.”

I laughed heartily. “That didn’t work on Catelyn Stark. What makes you think it will work on me? And to what end?”

He grimaced. “It’s the hand, isn’t it? I still have it, you know, for three more chapters.” He thrust his sword point down into the soft ground, where it stuck fast, and raised his right hand to show me.

“My husband lost his leg in battle, so no, this has nothing to do with your hand.” For all his good looks and supposed charm, this Jaime seemed to know very little about interacting with women.

“Why are you here then, Ms. Next?” he asked, dropping any pretense of interest. “I’m expecting an opponent here shortly.”

I was definitely getting too old for this job. Some of these characters couldn’t manage a simple conversation without drama. “I’m looking for Jaime 4-5. Do you know where I can find him?”

“The Mummer’s Ship in Braavos. The big wench is always after me to go too, but I don’t want to talk about it,” he answered petulantly.

“Talk about what?” I asked, perplexed.

He brought up his left arm and mimed a quick chop at his right wrist. “I’d rather fight than talk.”

“Ah. Well, thank you. I’ll be on my way,” I replied firmly. Without another word, I turned and made my way out of the Riverlands setting and headed across King’s Landing. Braavos, also on the coast, was actually right next to King’s Landing. Next to that were Sunspear and other Dornish settings, followed by the cities of Slaver’s Bay.

The Mummer’s Ship was a little tavern in the Ragman’s Harbor of Braavos, a setting for a single scene. As I came in, I saw the group sitting around a large table, mugs of ale in front of each person. Ned Stark, his wife Catelyn and son Robb, Reek, Maggy the Frog, and Brienne. Jaime was sitting beside Brienne, his hand resting lightly on her shoulder.

I stayed near the door, hesitant to interrupt. Maggy asked Reek if he had anything to share with the group, and he began describing some of the rather inventive things he’d like to do to Ramsay Bolton one of these days. Jaime looked up and saw me. He leaned over and whispered in Brienne’s ear, then stood and walked over to me.

“Ms. Next, I see you’ve found our little group,” he said pleasantly.

“Why are _you_ here?”

Jaime laughed quietly. “Funny, I thought you’d understood.” He wasn’t looking at me, and his voice was low. His eyes never left Brienne, who was watching Reek with undisguised horror.

“You’re here for her.”

“So you have been paying attention.” Now he did look at me, taking my measure. His shoulders relaxed and Jaime turned back to watch Brienne again. His voice was low, too low to carry to the group at the table. “You thought that every time we disappeared we were off doing all sorts of naughty things to each other. You’re not entirely wrong.” He paused. That wolfish grin was back. “Some days I do spend every idle moment making her cry my name in pleasure to balance every time she’s said it in fear and in pain.”

He was enjoying making me uncomfortable, damn him.

“But there are also days when I bring her here. Days when we walk over to Tolkien and watch one of the big battles or take in a Quidditch game in Harry Potter. Days when we read stories of lives we could have had in other times, other worlds.” He paused, seeming to realize he’d said more than he’d intended. Quickly Jaime went on. “Days when I leave her with Margaery to talk, although that one is a bit selfish on my part. The little rose has had quite a few enjoyable ideas.”

“If you’re trying to convince me what a beast you are, don’t forget I’ve read these books,” I reminded him. Jaime couldn’t see the look on his face just then either, the naked adoration in his eyes as he watched Brienne quite ruining the effect of his lecherous words.

“Then you know I have a long way to go before I am anything other than an oathbreaker and a killer.”

“I doubt Brienne would agree with that assessment,” I answered mildly.

“Indeed, the wench remains utterly convinced of my non-existent honor.” He smiled at Brienne, and she returned his smile, still hesitant after all this time.

I rolled my eyes and replied drily, “I can’t imagine why that might be.”

He chuckled. “We weren’t always like this, you know. Not until after _A Dance with Dragons_. It only took one chapter to convince me. Whatever path we’re on, we’re on it together.” He sighed and absently massaged his right forearm with his left hand. “Surely you didn’t come all this way to listen to Fantasy’s bloodiest support group. Have you given any thought to our request?”

“I have, but I can’t do anything just for you and Brienne,” I explained.

“No?” For a moment his disappointment was plain on his face, then he shuttered away that emotion and became hard. “That is unfortunate.”

I placed a hesitant hand on his right arm. Jaime stared down at it, clearly unused to anyone’s touch there but Brienne’s. “You misunderstand. We’ll have to include everyone. The whole series.”

Confusion crossed his handsome face, then hope lit his green eyes. “The whole series? What do you need?”

Quickly I filled him in on Landen’s plan. When I was done, Jaime was grinning and promised to do whatever was needed to make it work.

I could only hope it did work. If this backfired I’d be in serious trouble with Jurisfiction and possibly the Council of Genres as well.

 

* * *

  
It took two weeks, three meetings in the Small Council chambers, and a flurry of emails, Tumblr reblogs, and forum posts in the Outland, but at last the day finally arrived.

December 20, 2013: Fanfic Friday.

The plan was elegant in its simplicity. It was a feint, a distraction from the published books. One day to take a break from canon and enjoy the full gamut of cracky, shippy, endgame, alternate universe, TV-compliant fanfic that the fans had to offer. And there truly was a mountain of it, plenty to occupy nearly every fan with access to the Internet. Those few brave souls who tried to read the books today would find themselves yawning, unconvinced by the Generics fresh from training playing the roles today.

The fans I’d contacted directly thought I was another fanfic author. My daughter Tuesday showed me how easily passwords were hacked, and each person I contacted thought I was someone else. It did not take long before word spread and the idea grew.

I watched their ReadRate drop that morning, until the active readers for the whole series was under 25 at a time. Generics could easily handle that.

I did decide, though, to drop by and see what the characters were doing with their day off. I wouldn’t get near Harrenhal, that was a bit more than I wanted to see, but I’d heard that there would be a gathering in the Throne Room of the Red Keep in King’s Landing.

Even though Christmas didn’t exist in Westeros, I’d brought along a few tokens of the season anyway, held in an old carrier bag. It was bad form to show up to a party empty-handed after all.

As I approached the massive doors, I could hear music wafting on the cold afternoon air. I slipped in through the doors and stood off to one side, half hidden in shadows. The hall was set up for Joffrey and Margaery’s wedding, tables laden with food and drink and people everywhere. The musicians were at the far end near the high table, where Tyrion 1-3 and Bronn appeared to be playing a drinking game with Khal Drogo, Strongboar, Magnar of Thenn, Asha Greyjoy, and Daven Lannister. Asha leaned over and whispered in Daven’s ear. What little of his jovial face that could be seen around his bushy golden beard turned red, and Daven followed Asha away from the table into the shadows.

A thick cloud of fragrant smoke off to the side held Theon Greyjoy and Reek, I was certain, and if the hazy outlines I could discern meant anything, Robert Baratheon and all of the Reeds were over there as well.

As I stood there, taking in the various configurations of characters interacting, Addam Marbrand and Davos Seaworth approached the musicians and asked for accompaniment. The pair began singing with drunken enthusiasm, but I couldn’t discern the lyrics until a group of Vale soldiers and Royces joined in.

“Now, five books later, I lurk with the masses  
Indignant, entitled, and waiting for word  
That the great Bearded Glacier has finally published  
Nine hundred more pages of crack for the nerds…” 

I could not stifle a giggle. Somewhere in New Mexico, George Martin had likely just shivered violently for no reason he could name.

A gust of cold air washed in behind me as the doors burst open and Gendry Waters came in carrying a large crate. Arya Stark rode on his back, holding something small and white in her hand. I wasn’t quite sure what they were up to until they ducked behind a table and starting hurling snowballs into the crowd.

A high-pitched shriek drew my eye to a table at the left side of the hall. Cersei Lannister—no, two Cersei Lannisters—were perched in the lap of Jaime Lannister. Long golden curls, two hands, insolent smirk, ah yes, Jaime 1. Eww. One Cersei appeared to have taken a snowball to the chest, and she was digging snow out of her bodice frantically. The third Cersei must be around here somewhere. Yes, there she was, toward the back, her head shaved and wearing a plain crimson gown, holding a very large cup of wine and complaining loudly to Arianne Martell, who looked as if she’d rather be anywhere else.

“Spying on us, Ms. Next?”

I startled and turned. As expected, Jaime stood beside me. He smelled strongly of soap and his damp hair curled around his face. His companion immediately told me this was Jaime 4-5. Brienne’s hair was damp as well, and her broad face was flushed pink. She smiled at me as she stood just behind Jaime.

I cocked an eyebrow at them. “Do I need to request another scrubbing of Harrenhal?”

Brienne buried her face in Jaime’s shoulder while he laughed and replied, “Ms. Next, you are oddly fixated on Harrenhal.”

I gestured at the pair’s wet hair. “You do appear freshly bathed,” I pointed out.

“If you must know, I was merely showing my lady my chambers in the White Sword Tower. We had a deliciously hot bath and then a bit of rehearsal of the Oathkeeper scene.” That scene wasn’t even in their books, but his smirk told me that Valyrian steel had nothing to do with it.

“Jaime, shut up,” Brienne hissed, blushing even redder as she peered over his shoulder at me.

He grinned, clearly enjoying her embarrassment. Jaime turned his head until his mouth was beside her ear, and his voice dropped low. “Why? You _did_ take my sword, Brienne.”

Brienne made a strangled yelp and backed away from him.

“Wench, my lack of couth should not surprise you. Go ruin young Podrick’s fun if you tire of me.” He gestured over to Gendry and Arya, who had been joined by Podrick, Peck, Hot Pie, Tommen, Bran, Rickon, and Mycah.

Brienne stalked off to join the snowball fighters. Seeing her crouched down among them was rather amusing. Gendry was the only one even remotely close to her size.  

Jaime turned to me and sighed. “Before you begin that tiresome lecture I can see you’re itching to give me, don’t. I’d rather we part on good terms if it’s all the same to you.”

There was much I could say, but I had only a few months of experience living as a character in the BookWorld, over two decades ago in an unpublished work. I couldn’t really know what it was like for them. I simply nodded.

Jaime patted my shoulder. “Feel free to stay awhile. We are all deeply in your debt. We needed this day more than you can know.”

“Er, thank you, but there’s something I should tell you.” I wasn’t really sure how he would take what Landen and Tuesday had learned when checking the Internet for me this morning.

Jaime sighed. “You’d best tell me then.” His gaze drifted away from me, back to the characters mingling around us. Brienne had joined the youngsters in throwing snowballs, though their crate was nearly empty now.

I took a deep breath and just said it. “Some parts of the fandom were talking about making this a regular thing. Third Friday of each month. I can’t guarantee it’d be anything like this, but—”

My words were cut off abruptly as Jaime hugged me exuberantly and placed a loud, smacking kiss on my cheek. I dropped my bag in surprise, and one of the Christmas crackers inside went off with a bang.

Silence descended in the Throne Room as everyone turned to stare at us.

I shrugged out of Jaime’s arms, trying to regain a scrap of dignity, and bent to retrieve the popped cracker. “See, just a toy. You pull on the ends and they pop. There are little gifts inside.” I pulled out the paper crown and Jaime snatched it away, unfolding it and resting it at a jaunty angle on his head.

“Now that’s a terrifying sight,” boomed Stannis Baratheon. He stood against a pillar nearby, holding a goblet of wine.

Laughter bubbled up across the hall, and Jaime took it in stride. He turned back to me with a grin. “Anything else in that bag?”

I rummaged around and came up with a sprig of mistletoe.

“What is that?” Jaime asked curiously.

“Mistletoe. Poisonous, actually, but at Christmas people pin it up in doorways. If you’re caught with another person under the mistletoe, you have to kiss them,” I explained.

Jaime plucked the mistletoe from my hand and held the sprig above his head, a mischievous gleam in his eye. He turned and looked right at Brienne. As she started backing away, he said with a dark chuckle, “Oh, you’d better run.”

Brienne did run then, weaving between the tables far more gracefully than her size would suggest. Jaime took off after her, drawing laughter from the others.

In under a minute my meager supply of mistletoe had been claimed by Gendry, Margaery Tyrell, Jorah Mormont, Jon Snow, and Sansa Stark. In retrospect, mistletoe was not perhaps the best thing I could have brought, but now that it was done I was curious.

By now Jaime had caught Brienne, who hadn’t really tried very hard to escape him, and was kissing her against one of the pillars. Without breaking away from her, he tossed the mistletoe back onto the table behind him, where Renly Baratheon sat. Renly eyed the couple, then picked up the mistletoe and strode across the hall. To my surprise he found Daario Naharis and planted a kiss on the vain sellsword.

Meanwhile Jorah Mormont had found his lovely, fearsome queen, and she reluctantly consented to a kiss from the older knight. When the chaste kiss was over, he smiled broadly. Daenerys, however, wore a rather puzzled expression.

I nearly lost track of the little sprigs of mistletoe, already coming apart passed through so many hands. Margaery kissed two knights and Robb Stark before Petyr Baelish snatched away her mistletoe. Jon Snow and Gendry found themselves rather popular, neither needing to do more than stand there while a half dozen girls came to them. I spotted Sansa sometime later, in the shadows with a hulking figure who could only be Sandor Clegane. If the various ships never happened in canon, at least the characters themselves seemed to approve. No wonder they read so much fanfic.

After a few minutes, Rickon and Tommen snatched up the bag of Christmas crackers and started popping them beneath the feet of various kissing couples. It seemed like a good time for me to leave.

As I slipped out the door, I heard my name called. I waited while Hodor hurried through the closing door. “Thank you,” he said, wobbling a little.

“I’m just glad it worked,” I said, noting his flushed cheeks and slightly unfocused eyes. I could not imagine how much alcohol it must take to intoxicate a man of his size. “Just make sure they’ll be ready to go again by tomorrow.”

He nodded solemnly, then winked and replied, “Hodor.”

Time to go home. With any luck, no readers would notice this one day when no one was executed, maimed, or tortured in one corner of Fantasy. With any luck, my superiors would never notice either.

Laughter still echoing in the Throne Room, I left the Red Keep and the BookWorld.

 

**Author's Note:**

> The song Davos and Addam are singing is [“Write Like the Wind, George R.R. Martin.” ](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j7lp3RhzfgI)GRRM himself interrupted the performance of this song at [Comic Con 2013](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w5vw9RTVky4) along with Neil Gaiman. Gaiman, of course, wrote the infamous blog post [“George R. R. Martin is not your bitch.”](http://journal.neilgaiman.com/2009/05/entitlement-issues.html)


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